


Nice, That's The Word

by TheAsexualofSpades



Series: Quarantine Drabbles [128]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Domestic Fluff, First Dates, Fluff, Greg is Sweet, M/M, Mycroft is dramatic, No one is surprised
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:01:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25594693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAsexualofSpades/pseuds/TheAsexualofSpades
Summary: “This isn’t a good idea.”“You,” Anthea says, snapping her wrist to get the wrinkles out of his jacket, “have single-handedly started and ended wars by sitting in your chair and sending a few emails, and this isn’t a good idea?”“Wars have rules.”“And first dates don’t?”
Relationships: Anthea & Mycroft Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Quarantine Drabbles [128]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677655
Comments: 4
Kudos: 156





	Nice, That's The Word

**Author's Note:**

> we love some good old fashioned first date jitters

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Prompt: “This isn’t a good idea.”

* * *

“This isn’t a good idea.”

“You,” Anthea says, snapping her wrist to get the wrinkles out of his jacket, “have single-handedly started and ended wars by sitting in your chair and sending a few emails, and _this_ isn’t a good idea?”

“Wars have _rules._ ”

“And first dates don’t?”

Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. “I _understand_ the rules of war. Social conventions… _stereotypes,_ those make absolutely no sense.”

Anthea smirks, passing him his suit jacket and taking the now useless comb from his fingers. “You missed a spot.”

Mycroft drops his hand and lets her get on with it. “Are you quite sure you can’t just come along and we can make this a work dinner?”

“Nope,” she sings cheerfully, “you’ve had this in your calendar for months. No use making excuses now.”

“Lower the expectations, lay the groundwork for an easy exit…” Mycroft glares when Anthea smacks his forehead with the comb. “Do tell me as to why you’re assaulting me with grooming devices?”

His assistant doesn't even bat an eyelash. “You’re slouching. Stand up straight.”

“Yes, _Mummy._ ”

“I’d be more than happy to call her, I’m sure she would be—“

_“No._ ”

Anthea giggles. “Then stop being so dramatic.”

“I’m a Holmes, dear, surely you know that’s a bit of an ask.”

“I know, believe me,” she sighs, setting the comb aside, “but you _must_ stop. You’re going to give yourself a migraine.”

“Would that get me out of it?”

Anthea crosses her arms, fixing him with a look. “You don’t mean that,” she says softly, “don’t look at me like that, you _don’t.”_

Mycroft huffs in disbelief.

“If you did, you would have already gotten yourself out of it. If you did, you wouldn’t have had me make sure one of your good suits was here and ready. If you didn’t…” Anthea leans forward and tucks a stray strand of hair back into place, “you wouldn’t have let me do that.”

Sighing, Mycroft looks at himself in the mirror.

He hired Anthea for more than just her office skills.

“You look great,” Anthea says softly, “he’s going to love it. Now, he’s going to be here in five minutes. Why don’t we go wait upstairs?”

“He’s not going to like it, is he?”

Anthea chuckles as she steers him out of the Dungeon. “I think Inspector Lestrade knows _you_ far more than he knows the rules for first dates.”

The inspector is already here. Mycroft fights the urge to tug down his sleeves; he knows they’re already straight. The inspector turns around and smiles.

“Thought I’d have to come find you,” he says as he crosses the room, “wasn’t sure I’d make it out.”

“No worries,” Anthea says, already pulling away, “have a nice evening.”

Mycroft watches her go, only to have his attention pulled back when Gregory rests a hand on his elbow.

“Ready?”

“I can have the car pulled around,” Mycroft says, pulling out his phone, only to frown when Gregory covers it.

“No need.” He starts leading Mycroft to the door. “We’re not going far.”

It’s a pleasant enough evening, Mycroft supposes. There’s been an increase in humidity throughout the day, mist gathering around the streetlights. Gregory walks with his hands in his pockets, moving effortlessly through the crowds of people. There are less of them than Mycroft expected, perhaps due to the influx of—

“Hey.” An elbow bumps his. He turns to see Gregory staring at him, half-smile on his face. “You don’t have to keep thinking so hard over there.”

“If you are asking me to ‘shut off’ my brain, so to speak, it will not end well.”

Gregory throws his head back and laughs as they stop at a traffic light. “Nah. I know better than that.”

They walk for a little longer in silence before Gregory turns up the steps to…a house that is most definitely _not_ Gregory’s.

Gregory must have noticed his incredulous expression. The man shrugs a little sheepishly.

“Thought I’d cook tonight, if that’s alright with you,” he says, still with his hands in his pockets, “and my kitchen isn’t exactly up to standard. Got a friend that said I could use hers for tonight.”

“And she is?”

“In Vienna, I think,” Gregory says, “could’ve been Florence.”

“And are all your…friends of such high standing?”

Gregory shrugs. “Dunno. Meet ‘em where I meet ‘em and sometimes they turn out to have lots of things I don’t.”

Mycroft only shakes his head, bemused, as Gregory leads the way up the stairs. The house is a rather nice two-story brick townhome, with a rather splendid foyer. Evidently, Gregory is at least somewhat familiar with the layout, striding through to the quite impressive kitchen. He shrugs off his suit jacket, hanging it over a peg and extending his hand.

“Your coat?”

“I’m…” Mycroft absentmindedly runs his hand over the buttons. “I’m alright, thank you.”

“As you wish.” Gregory turns to the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves to just above his elbows. “I checked with Anthea about your dietary restrictions, ensured the menu wasn’t gonna offend you in any way.”

“And what will you be preparing tonight?”

“Steak.” Gregory opens the fridge and begins laying the ingredients on the counter. “With a sauce and grilled vegetables on the side.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. Steak is…not a beginner’s dish.

“Do you require assistance?”

“Indulge me?” Gregory gestures to the stools with a smile. “Prefer to have you watch, if that’s alright.”

As he sits, Gregory’s smile widens. ‘Feel free to offer any constructive criticism you have at any point. I’m happy to hear feedback.”

It makes Mycroft smile. But…he’s got to admit, he’s having trouble paying attention to the _food_ part of the preparation.

There’s something very satisfying about watching someone be very good at something, Mycroft has realized. Gregory’s movements are practiced and efficient, with the air of someone who could probably do this with their eyes closed. The ease with which he moves through the space calms his nerves; he knew what he was doing. Not that he doubts that. Not much.

“You are also encouraged to talk about anything you’d like,” Gregory calls over his shoulder, “I’m not opposed to the silence, but don’t feel like it’s necessary.”

“Don’t want to distract you,” Mycroft replies, “this is not a…simple dish.”

“Why’d you think my back is turned?”

Oh. Well.

Mycroft has just enough time to school his face back into a neutral expression by the time Gregory turns around again.

“Now,” Gregory says, hands on his hips, “I can handle the food, but I’m afraid my…wine knowledge is lacking.”

“Allow me,” Mycroft says, rising. “I have an idea of what would be suitable.”

“Great, because I’ve definitely gotten lost in the wine cellar here before.” Gregory points down the hall. “Second on your left.”

The wine cellar is fairly standard, as far as wine cellars go. Mycroft peruses the racks at a leisurely pace, letting his fingers drift over the names and years. It’s odd…how at ease he feels in a stranger’s house, letting another man cook for him. It’s…nice, is that the word?

When he emerges with a bottle in hand to two steaming plates and Gregory squinting at various shapes of wine glasses, he allows himself a private smile before he strides back out.

That is the word, he decides, as he carefully plucks the right glass out of Gregory’s hand and pours them both a generous serving.

That is the word as he discovers that the man could easily be hired as a chef in any five-star restaurant in the city.

  
That is the word as he laughs for the first time in…oh, at least a month.

Nice.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come yell at me on tumblr while we're all in quarantine. 
> 
> https://a-small-batch-of-dragons.tumblr.com/


End file.
